


Beyond Repair

by noiseforyoureyes



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-13
Updated: 2005-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noiseforyoureyes/pseuds/noiseforyoureyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was so absorbed in whatever dark thoughts played out behind those eyes that I doubted he had even heard me at first. [Set during the events of Redux and Redux II; Margaret Scully's POV.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond Repair

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: The X-Files belongs to the folks at 1013.

There was a church across from the hospital where Dana was staying.

I made it part of my routine to warm the cold wood of the pews there, letting the silence fill me and bring what little peace it could to the flood of emotion that always took me after visiting my daughter.

The church was small, and old, but perfectly kept; which often made me wonder, for in all my time there over the past several weeks, I had never seen anyone else disturbing the quiet. The wood was always polished, and the stained glass windows never dim, seeming to draw even the faintest rays of light. They reminded me all too much of my daughter, who somehow maintained an unflinching strength of spirit in face of the disease that threatened her. I thanked God for wherever she found that strength – whoever she found it in – though I had my suspicions, of course.

Today, however, it appeared that the source of my suspicions had finally come to the end of his own strength.

I knew, when I saw the car parked unevenly against the far curb - a jarring intrusion upon the usually empty street - that today, for the first time, I would have a companion in my grief.

Even the creak of the oversized doors as I entered didn't stir him. He was hunched over in the third row, looking acutely uncomfortable, and I wondered when the last time he'd willingly walked into any church had been. The sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up haphazardly, and his shoulders were slouched in defeat, as if coming here had sapped all stubborn resolve from him.

His effect on Dana was something I had never quite been able to explain to myself. The lines drawn by their profession had eroded long ago... I had witnessed it with a certain curiosity over the past four years. There was no pretense between them, but they were not completely open with each other, either. An awkwardness seemed to arise whenever they became too self-aware of the unvoiced connection they shared. But it was obvious and strong, and I was glad for the peace it seemed to bring my daughter, especially now.

One thing was for certain, though: this man was not at peace. And the more my daughter came to terms with her condition, the more desperately he seemed to cling to her, as if by sheer force of will he could stop the imminent future that loomed over the both of them.

As I walked up behind him now, he reminded me of a little boy who had lost his way and had finally decided to stay in one place like his mother had taught him, so that somebody might find him.

I had found him, at least.

"Fox?"

He was so absorbed in whatever dark thoughts played out behind those eyes that I doubted he had even heard me at first. Then the name seemed to register, and he lifted his head up heavily to face me, something struggling to awaken in his gaze. "Mrs. Scully." His voice was low and dry and cracked from disuse. 

As I sat down next to him, he tried to compose himself, but I held up a hand. "I don't want to intrude..."

"No," he said, his voice seeming to remember itself now. "No, it's fine."

I nodded and allowed myself a small, sad smile, for his benefit. I felt his tension as I laid my hand on his shoulder; his guilt kept a wall standing firmly between us. I didn't know why. Of all the dangers their profession put them in, this one was not exclusive. Cancer chose its victims randomly: one moment, an aging soul with nothing left to live for... the next, a strong, young, vibrant life like my daughter. It wasn't fair, and I felt him railing against that injustice as he continued to stare ahead at the altar. Where I found some measure of peace, he seemed to find only a deepening hopelessness. I felt something tear in my heart, but I left it up to him to speak, allowing the silence to melt the ice in the meantime.

At last, he opted out of whatever battle he was fighting with God.

"I'm sorry," he said, finally meeting my eyes. "I'm not very good at this."

"What is there to be good at?" I questioned gently.

"The whole..." His vague gesture fell flat. "I guess I've just never been much of a... God-person." He shuffled in his seat, embarrassed. "I don't exactly know what I'm doing here."

"I think He does."

He looked at me, then, with an expression somewhere between gratitude and frustration. I squeezed his shoulder and let my hand fall. His sigh was deep and draining. We sat like that for awhile, and I remembered the last time we had been together like this - when Dana was missing, two years ago. I had been so certain, then, that his relentless search would succeed. I was so sure she would come back to us. And she had. 

But this was something neither of us could fight. This was Dana's fight alone, now. Perhaps that was why he was so lost. There was nothing he could do, this time.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Scully," he suddenly said, with a sincerity that needed no emphasis. Swallowing, he looked down at his hands. "Ever since your daughter was assigned to work with me, I've brought your family nothing but pain." He paused, as if judging whether it was best to go on. "I don't know why she stays. I don't know how you can even speak to me."

I felt like I was chiding a naive son. "Because I know where to place the blame. And it isn't on you, Fox."

This only seemed to plunge him further into depression. I felt the wall of guilt that was keeping me out harden anew. His reluctance was palpable, but he forced the words out, forced the wall to crack: "She hasn't told you?"

"Told me what, Fox?"

The next sentence seemed to catch in his throat, as if it was too vile, too unthinkable to be uttered. "That she - that she was given this disease because of me."

I tried not to let this new information affect me, but it did. Visibly, apparently, as I watched those soft hazel eyes of his fill with regret and self-loathing. I knew there was more to it - I knew it couldn't be as horrifyingly simple as he made it sound. So I asked the one question I had.

"Why?"

Each word was like a lead weight being dropped from him. His voice was low and barely audible. "The men - the same ones that took Dana - they wanted me to believe something. Something I now know to be a lie."

"Who?" I demanded. "Who are these men?"

He looked tired, then - so tired, and broken beyond repair. "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."

I felt a new surge of pity for this man, whose infamous passion had left such a fragile shell behind in its wake. I shook my head sadly. "All the blood is on their hands, Fox. You can't make yourself the martyr. I know Dana wouldn't let you."

I thought I saw the barest ghost of a smile touch the corners of his mouth. "She hasn't." The respite was brief. His countenance darkened. "I should have known. I should have opened my eyes..." His voice was torn, ragged. "I don't understand," he continued, "why it has to be her. I don't understand why it's never me."

I placed my hand over his, and chose my words carefully. "I don't think it's a requirement for us to understand."

He was falling apart in the stillness. He who was willing to entertain the most outlandish of possibilities, could not accept this one frustratingly simple notion. It struck me, then, that without the strength of his beliefs, my daughter's surety and logic was now the only thing he could fall back on. And what would happen when she was gone? Where would he turn then?

"Fox," I offered, into the quiet storm that surrounded us. "Have you ever prayed?"

"Once," he said, in a painful whisper. "After my sister was taken."

"You don't need to say anything," were all the instructions I gave.

I grasped both of his hands in mine and felt him respond, head hanging, eyes closed, seeking anything, any relief at all from the suffocating hurt that he bore. I sought it with him. We stayed that way - for how long, I don't know, only that at some point, I thought I heard him crying, and I placed my arm around his shoulder. It struck me that his own mother was no longer there for him, nor his father. He had no family, no one to turn to in times of grief. Perhaps that was why God had brought him here – and me.

I didn't know. But it didn't matter. We loved the same person, and in the quiet of that church, we were not alone.


End file.
